Kayaking

Kayaking can be a white-water, white-knuckle, exhausting, exhilarating, Type A extreme sport thrill. But if done correctly, it is the ultimate lazy man's endeavor. You sit. You float. You paddle, or not. If the wind or the current begin to carry you to a point far enough from the dock that undue exertion would be required to return, you can nudge the kayak over to shore, look at the birds, pull out a book, or just sit and practice the manly tone of voice you will use when someone asks "What did you do for Father's Day?" and you respond "Went kayaking."

Today we went kayaking for Father's Day. It's a day early, but Sally and Emma are off to New York tomorrow morning, so on actual Father's Day, Meg and I will be recovering from today's exertions, watching the Nats wrap up their series against the Padres, and if we get ambitious, going out to eat. Today's kayaking was really enough sport for the weekend. (Of course I speak for myself -- Meg is already out on a bike ride and will be tearing it up again tomorrow.)

How much sport was it? Really, a little paddling up the Potomac on a sunny morning, light breeze, low humidity, tide receding down river along with a barely perceptible current,  just enough to say "Eh, that's far enough." The girls of course zipped up and down the river, while Sally joined me out of the channel by the shade trees along the shore. But not too close to shore -- if you've recently celebrated your 27th anniversary, and you're hoping for 28, it is advisable when kayaking to rent two singles rather than a double and completely avoid conversations such as:

"Don't go under the trees, snakes will drop in the kayak."

"That's crazy, there are no snakes in the trees and they don't drop in kayaks, and even if they did, they're not poisonous, are they?"

We had separate kayaks and no such conversations (this time), and we look forward to a warm and loving celebration of the 28th.

Emma pulled up while doing a little bird watching and pointed out a lanky, graceful bird skimming the water. I told her it's a heron, took out my phone and, after a quick Google search, read Wendell Berry's "The Peace of Wild Things:"

When despair for the world grows in me 

and I wake in the night at the least sound 

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, 

I go and lie down where the wood drake 

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. 

I come into the peace of wild things 

who do not tax their lives with forethought 

of grief. I come into the presence of still water. 

And I feel above me the day-blind stars 

waiting with their light. For a time 

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

It's the poem we read when we scattered Anne's ashes just downriver at the Three Sisters rocks (the point above the Key Bridge in the background of this very blog.) While it did not precisely match the mood of a sunny morning celebration, I'd say it's more contemplative than somber. Contemplating, we drifted back to Fletcher's Cove, and per a request from the back seat, stopped on the way home for ice cream. No better Father's Day.